Why Do My Clouds Look Like Genitalia?
by disableaccount
Summary: A series of drabbles that detail the Hetalia casts' parenting abilities at… well, not their proudest moments. Crack.
1. Ballsacks

**Title: **Why Do My Clouds Look Like Genitalia?

**Summary:** A series of drabbles that detail the Hetalia casts' parenting abilities at… well, not their proudest moments. Crack. Updated daily.

_(PS I'm fairly certain that I'm shitting this out from the darkest corners of my colon and general anal cavity.)_

_(PSS Read this out loud in a slurred, dramatic, British accent for the full effect.)_

- x - x - x - x - x - x- x - x -

The evening was hung like a boy who hit puberty only halfway. The thickest fog the vicinity had ever witnessed clung to every surface with sticky, pudgy fingers. The cloud had essentially become the planet's snuggie. Arthur Kirkland, working that five o' clock shadow with a pair of dark, dangerous green eyes, gazed out the window of his study. His dilated pupils tried to make out shapes in the cloud-because that's what everyone did with clouds, they just seem to forget that fog counted too.

He couldn't really see anything. A couple patches looked lighter in areas. Lumpy. Next to more lumps. Testicular cancer?

Blast, one knows they're getting old when genital failure is what he sees in the figures dreamers look to for ships to take their imagination away.

"Papa! papa!" A little boy yells from across the house, knocking over and breaking what was probably a priceless family heirloom. "I broke the vase above the fireplace!" Oh, so it wasn't a family heirloom, it was just priceless. He promptly heard sobbing from the same voice, getting shriller with the second. He may have apologized a few times, but Arthur didn't particularly care.

"You get your arse in here this instant, you bloody wanker!" he yelled, his voice carrying to probably even the neighbors' houses. "And be prepared to tell me what the deuce happened! You're supposed to be asleep, you sleazy nutbag, not filching through the cabinets for my rum. Where did I go wrong raising you, you little-!"

Oh, balls! The boy knocked over a chair on his way into the room. Clumsy oaf, that one was. Entirely not his genes. Definitely the boy's mum's. In no way was that his faulty boy's faults his fault.

"Here, Papa," he said quietly, his eyes tinged pink with salty tears.

Arthur beckoned him closer with a finger. When the boy got within an arm's reach, he popped him on the head. "How old are you, boy? Fourteen already?"

"Eight, Papa."

"Right, so what the bloody hell is wrong with you? Can't you walk straight like a normal twleve year old? Can't stay straight, next thing you know, you'll turn out like, well, and be a bloody fa-"

"Papa, I'm sorry! I honestly didn't see it!"

"My arse! Blast, how do you not see the thing? It was just there, blocking half the doorway!"

He sobbed again. "Well, I just can't see. I think I need glasses, Papa."

"It's a bloody chair! The last thing you hit was a fireplace—a blasted wall, guarded by fire! How did you miss that, boy?"

The boy's response was lost on Arthur. He just stared at the child, biting his tongue and rolling around thoughts through his head. The boy resembled the boy's mum. Thus, all his faults were her faults. She had glasses. Passed that gene on down.

The kid probably wasn't even his. That'd explain the high cheekbones and the way his hair did that thing that hers did. Why, he was already six years old and couldn't even read Shakespeare.

Oh, wait, the boy was talking.

"Do you forgive me, Papa?"

Arthur blinked. His lazy, green eyes stared at him for a solid, silent minute. His son gulped many times and began sweating, nervous as the first shaved monkey slapped on the butt into space.

"I should've named you Oberon."

The child blinked. He wiped a tear. "Papa?"

"Or Sylvester."

His son fiddled with this fingers and looked down at his feet.

Arthur snapped back to reality a few moments afterward. "Whatever. Get out of here, you little brat. Scat! Don't hit the bloody door on the way out!"

He sighed heavily and rubbed his temples.

Arthur turned his eyes back out the window. The fog still looked like a bunch of ballsacks to him. Except, the occasional wispy area looked a wee bit like smoke. Speaking of, he could use one…

He reached over fumbled around the desk. "Bloody family, bloody house. The bloody hell is life, anyway? Just born to sit around and beat it while we watch littler people fumble around and make our mistakes…" he mumbled more articulately than he thought he was capable of at the moment. It was four in the morning, what the bloody hell was he supposed to be doing, anyway? Work?

Halt; think for a minute. What… what was his job again? And why was his boy up for this late? Was he a scandalous little seventeen year old, sneaking out to hook up at parties already? The nerve!

Arthur lit up. It didn't matter. He took a puff and smiled. Ah, weed. Without it, he wouldn't be able to be a proper, gentlemanly father.


	2. Playboy

**Title: **Why Do My Clouds Look Like Genitalia?

**Summary:** A series of drabbles that detail the Hetalia casts' parenting abilities at… well, not their proudest moments. Crack. Updated daily.

_(PS I had a real French person crash at my house for a few days, so I have experience in this area. I think.)_

_(PSS That French person was nothing like Francis. Or this story.)_

x – x – x – x – x – x – x – x

Francis flipped the newspaper and stretched out his legs. He took another sip of coffee and set it back next to the sink. He scratched his bare butt and flipped the page again. Why was the damn thing in Japanese?

Oh, right. Of course. How could he forget? He knocked up that Vietnamese hooker and had to settle down in a shitty apartment in Chinatown somewhere.

And now he was constipated on the toilet, yet again. The witch didn't believe in prune juice, or anything that made the excretion of solid wastes easier. That included porn in the house. Nope, because having those things would be absurd. Unless Francis wanted to try her foreign shaman herbs and secret Chinese (communist) heritage recipes. The whore was always up for letting him try some of that. (Whether this suggestion was in lieu of prune juice or porn, he wasn't sure.)

"Constipation, constipation, gotta get 'at poo-poo out of 'ere," he sang softly, taking another sip of coffee. "Out of my butt you must go, so I can refill it with a long, 'ard, penis."

He improvised lyrics.

His "wife" was out hookering again. Getting more money, getting more AIDS. Didn't matter to him. Francis Bonnefoy was too busy sowing his seed in the anal cavities of other hookers in the city. And he made sure none of them were Korean like his wife, because God knows they all speak the same language and they all come from the same place and they all know each other. If he got with one of them, she would know.

He thought for a moment. Was it okay for half-Asians? What about a quarter? Were they still accepted into the secret Asian society? Was his _son_ in the secret Asian society?

Right, so, his wife was out escorting people to their own bedrooms for baby making times and profit. He had the day off from work, but he still couldn't quit feeling like he had forgotten something. Something important… He should clip his toenails. They could use it.

Aaaaaand—there we go! Successful bowel movement down! He felt accomplished. No extra assistance necessary this time!

Francis finished up in the area. He finished his coffee, was humming a tune, smiling and brushing his hair, when something caught his eye in the trash can. Was that… porn? A good, old-fashioned _playboy? _How long had it been there? Where did it come from? There must be a God out there somewhere, and he must love Francis dearly!

He started beating off immediately.

And it was glorious. Really, he did this all the time, but one's imagination, as colorful as it may be (And Francis's is _very_ colorful), can only get you so far. That aside, there was something about hiding in the bathroom, being sneaky, and not letting the woman of the house know what you were up to that brought back a feeling that the joy ride that much better.

It brought back memories of the golden days. Fucking around in his youth, where everyone wanted a piece of him. All those wonderful, happy days before he knocked up that Mongolian prostitute and had that fucking little Japanese boy—!

His son. School. That's what he had forgot.

Francis heard the door open. "Anybody home?" his son asked in his quiet, gentle voice. Francis heard footsteps come down the hallway, but he prayed that he would pass over the bathroom. As he did, he went faster, harder. He could feel the anxiety and suspense creeping inside him like the monster orgasm it was going to be, and he bit his lip.

Francis came everywhere, and groaned loudly. Yes, it was amazing. He breathed heavily and leaned his head back and looked up into the air conditioner. Life's little pleasures.

"Hello, is someone ho—"

Francis blinked, hand still moving slowly. He stopped and smiled. "Welcome 'ome, _mon fils_. 'Ow was school?"

His son was mortified. He was simply too shocked to move. His father had forgotten to pick him up from school in favor of beating it off… to the playboy _he_ had left in the bathroom this morning before school? He wanted to leave, but he couldn't bear to break eye contact, lest his eyes wander to…

"It was fine, dad."

"_Fantastique_! Zat is always somezing a fazer likes to 'ear from 'is boy," Francis said, carrying on conversation as if he were not naked, not on the toilet, and evidence of a few minutes spent with a playboy was not right there. And by right there, he meant _everywhere_.

His boy shrugged. His black, evenly cut hair fell back into the perfect line it always resigned to. After a few breaths, his eyes reverted back to their blank, casual stare. "Grades are top notch, finished an art project, not doing too poorly in home ec—"

"_Mon fils_, do you masturbate?"

Scratch the previous update on his facial status. The Asian boy was mortified once more.

Francis made awkward hand gestures, trying to explain. "You are fourteen now, correct?"

"Correct…" he barely was able to stutter out.

"_Oui,_ so, you ought to be masturbating. I know your mozer tries to hide zis sort of stuff from ze 'ouse," Francis tapped the playboy, as if it were not obvious what he was talking about. "But zat should not stop you! In just a few years, you'll be out on ze streets like your mozer and I were at zat age, and you need to be prepared."

His son closed his eyes as tightly as possible. "Dad, I really don't need the mental images. In fact, I don't need this talk, I'm just going to turn around and go back—"

Francis stood up and grabbed the door before his son could shut it himself. "_Non_, you definitely need this talk. Masturbating is an essential part of life, _mon fils_. When ze men and women of zis world fail you, your 'and will always be able to save ze day. Why risk STDS and children when you have zis!" he exclaimed, holding up his hand. Which, one might care to note, had not been washed since his recent… endeavor.

The half-Asian quickly shut his eyes. "Please, _please_, this is not necessary."

"'Zere are many techniques you can use. What I like to do, well, eet is best explained through example, _non_?"

The younger one was _not_ going to stand for that. He was sure it could be classified as some sort of sexual abuse or harassment, and he certainly did not want that on his shoulders, either. "Dad."

Francis was sitting back down on the toilet and picking up the playboy.

"_Dad!"_

"What is eet, _mon fils_?"

"I masturbate plenty. Now, _please_, may I leave?"

Francis stared at him. He wanted to cry. Oh, how his boy was growing up so quickly! It seemed like only yesterday he was building his first space ship out of legos. Francis sighed and smiled, feeling old. "'Zat is fine, _mon fils_, you may leave."

Francis sighed and throw the playboy back where he found it, the trash.

And then something occurred to him.

His wife was no lesbian. And he certainly had not bought that magazine. That meant… that the playboy belonged to…

Oh, _mon Dieu_… had his son used that already?


End file.
